Killer Queen
by Apprentice To The Dark Side
Summary: He said he'd only train her because she was blackmailing him. That's all it was - at first. But when emotions began running wild and she became a better fighter, he had to admit the blackmail was the last thing on his mind. Let's go to war! Tommy/OC
1. Introduction

She was a tiny little thing. Five two, maybe five three, short, ugly brown haircut, really going at this big old bag which probably weighed more than she did. She looked like she might come up to his waist, maybe the middle of his ribcage, but he knew he was exaggerating. Still, she was lightly built and couldn't have been more than ninety pounds soaking wet. The stupid girl could barely move the bag she was whaling away at, seemingly intent on breaking her wrists or maybe all of her knuckles, whichever came first. Judging by the look in her eye, she might have been going for both. When she got frustrated of bruising her hands, she actually threw herself at the bag, latching on with her knees, growling something fierce and butting it with her head. From the back, she looked about twelve. With a sigh, he got to his feet and came over, weaving around sparring partners and young wrestlers trying to break the current crunch record. As he got closer, he noticed she had a very pallid, pale complexion, a bit waxen, with deep purple shadows under her eyes, and every bone threatened to rupture through her skin. She smelled of stale cigarettes and a sweet feminine sweat which didn't accent the air very often around here. The thin gray tee shirt she was wearing bagged horribly on her frame, and there were big damp sweat patches under the arms. Jogging shorts which might have been her boyfriend's boxers were cinched at the waist and covered with mysterious stains.

"You tryin' t' break your fingers 'r somethin'?" He asked, catching her elbow and sounding incredulous. She let go of the bear hug she had on the bag and turned on him, and he saw she came up to his chest, but barely. The girl cocked her chin and glared at him, breathing ferociously, hyperventilating almost, her face blotchily red and her pixie frame soaked with sweat. She seemed quite prepared to start whaling away on him next, and he almost had to resist the urge to laugh.

"No, why, you gotta problem with me comin' down here?" She challenged, shifting her weight from side to side as if she were either trying to get around him or looking where best to land a punch. "I come down here all the time, whatsa matter, you gotta problem?"

"No, no problem," He said gruffly, taking a step backwards almost unconsciously. Was this chick for real? "'Cept you don't come down here all the time."

"Yeah, yeah, I do!" The girl insisted, shaking her badly taped hands. He could see that there was dark swelling and bruises starting to form – the taping on her hands was truly terrible, and she had been going at the bag for a long time.

"No, you don't," Tommy growled, his deep voice rumbling, a sharp note of amusement whetting his tone. "'Cos I'm down here, this is where I work out, an' you don't come down here."

"So?" She demanded. "Lemme alone, I gotta train!" She turned from him abruptly, cocking her fists to start smashing herself senseless against the bag again. This time he grabbed the bag and held it in his strong grip.

"Hey, hey, easy," He ordered. "You ever go at a bag before? Huh?"

She shot him a dark glare, then dropped her gaze.

"Didn't think so. Lookit these hands, you gonna really hurt yourself, kid." He told her firmly.

"I ain't no kid," She snapped, dark gaze meeting his again. She had funny eyes – flickering, alert, anxious, never staying in one place for long. "I'm twenty two! An' hey, if I wanna train bare handed I'll train that way, you got me?"

"You got no trainer," He pointed out, trying to bite back a laugh. "You ain't trainin'. C'mon, let's get some proper tape 'n those hands."

She followed him reluctantly over to the benches, where he unceremoniously turreted out a young boxer and sat her down. Dropping to his knees on the concrete floor, he waited until she held out her hands, barely covered with tape and already unraveling. Twisting his lips to one side, he held her thin wrist still – it was shaking erratically – and began carefully unwrapping it. She hissed in pain, reflexively pulling away from him, but his grip was as powerful as he looked. When both hands were displayed to the artificial glow of the industrial lights above them, the muscular wrestler whistled. "See, you don't tape right, you get hands that look like this," He showed her, outlining the blue-and-green bruises around her knuckles, purple shading down to her wrist. "See? Gotta get ice on those quick, they'll hurt like a sonofabitch later."

"Who cares?" The girl said sullenly.

"You will, in five minutes, I guarantee it."

She said nothing for a moment, then pulled her hands away. He was a big man – wide, powerful shoulders melting into a thick neck, massive torso blending into stocky legs and creating a strong frame. He seemed to be a mountain of sheer, raw muscle, tattoos decorating his skin, the ink shining dully under the glare of the lights. He was a real boxer, she could tell, the kind which carried themselves with a tough street swagger. He worked here, she could tell – the other trainers asked him questions, respected him, didn't give him any lip service. She had only been in this place once or twice, but she always saw him at the front desk. "Hey, do you fight?" She asked, brightening.

"Yeah. Yeah, I fight," He shrugged his wide shoulders.

""S your name?" She asked, turning her head to one side.

"Tommy. You?"

"Kelly. Can you teach me?"

He laughed then, a bark of a laugh which belonged to a wolf. "Teach you to what, fight?"

"Yeah! How 'bout it?" She asked eagerly, sitting up.

"You high, or somethin'? 'Cos these hands ain't gonna get you nowhere. An' I don't teach nothin'." Tommy said. "C'mon, I'll get you some ice for those hands."

She followed him, still talking, her sweat-soaked body shivering as the air conditioning kicked on. "Please? I gotta know how to defend myself. I got mugged yesterday, my ma was killed in a muggin'. I gotta learn stuff like this, you know? It's hard, you know, livin' in Philly, comin' home late every night, I gotta learn how to kick ass, right?"

He said nothing, just began securing bags of ice on her swollen hands. Her eyes were brown, lively orbs which were probably the best part of her face, but she looked so unhealthy that it was hard to tell. That ugly pageboy haircut wasn't doing anything for her, and she looked like a junkie. Or maybe she was just nervous. Or crazy. "So you though comin' down here and beatin' the shit outta your hands would help you kick ass?" He asked her, raising his brow.

She ducked her head a little, blushing a bit, but there was a smile on her face despite her panting and her sweat. "Kinda. I'ma track runner, see, so's I figured runnin' ain't gonna help none when I'm about to get raped, you know what I'm sayin'? So I thought I'd come down here, meet Sylvester Stallone, y'know."

He looked at her tiny frame, her thin wrists, big eyes in her small face, and shook his head. "You ever get mugged, you run like hell," He said roughly. "You could have a fuckin' Pro Wrestlin' belt and you'd get murdered. You got me? Okay?" He said, and tapped her ice bags for emphasis.

Her shoulders sagged a little. "Okay." She sighed.

That wasn't the end of it, though. It never was.

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><p><em>AN: Just watched Warrior yesterday and I HAVE to pair someone with Tommy! AHHHHH! Please review, please, I'm on my knees. :) _


	2. Blackmail

He had to eat. He didn't eat much, not these days, but he had to eat sometimes, and going out to the local greasy spoon was better than chowing cold pizza by the glow of the refrigerator. The restaurant wasn't bad, not really, just a little too dim and the bar a little too busy. Positioned right next to the el tracks, the already-crooked pictures rattled on the thin walls whenever the trolley passed by, the cutlery jingling on the tables. He chose a booth in the corner, like he always did, and folded his thick arms over his wide chest, taking care not to seem too friendly, otherwise the waitresses would cling to him like glue. He shrugged his hoodie a little closer around his powerful shoulders, and saw a curvaceous waitress approaching, hips swinging saucily from side to side. Long, thick blonde hair pulled into an aggressive ponytail danced over her shoulder as she smiled at him, a smile which showed too much teeth and too much personality. "Hi, welcome to the Golden Knife, I'm Jenny, your server tonight," She said sweetly, like she was in an Applebee's or a Chili's instead of a rinky-dink diner which served food only slightly less greasy than their counters. "Can I interest you in a drink?"

"Yeah, uh, Guinness Draft," Tommy rumbled. "Gimmie today's special." He slapped the menu on the table and she picked it up, long pink nails scraping against the fake plastic wood.

"Our special tonight is the Philly Cheesesteak Burger, is that okay?" The waitress – Jenny, he remembered – asked brightly. At his clipped nod, she stuck her notepad into the back pocket of her black jeans and swayed off, actually glancing once over her shoulder at him as though he were some celebrity. Which he was, he reminded himself, and pulled his dark cap a little lower over his eyes. Staring at the wood-patterned tabletop he was seated at, his gray eyes did not flicker in the slightest when the el screamed by, the entire diner rattling like a pea in a pod. The restaurant was slow tonight – there seemed to be perhaps five or six people drinking at the bar, none of them interested in each other and all of them engrossed in the game, silently drinking their poisons. One sad looking old woman was slowly counting out change in a booth near the middle, adding a tip, and then hobbled off. Tommy rubbed the crease between his forehead and tried to think straight.

Ever since he lost, he had been skimming around. People knew the name Tommy Riorden now, and everybody suddenly wanted to fight him, wanted to beat the war hero who ripped the door off a tank. He didn't want to be in another tournament, he just wanted to fight. Anyone who challenged him lost, badly as well. It was only by the barest, sheerest luck that people did not connect the name Riorden to Conlon – sure, the fight would have been more interesting, but it kept him safe. He didn't want people to know he went AWOL. There had been a reason he had arrived in Philadelphia with no money, no references, nothing – he had shelled out every red cent to wipe out any existence of Thomas Conlon. Now the only people who knew who he was were living nearby, and both related to him. Tommy sighed, expelling a breath between his teeth, and looked up at the sound of shoes approaching. What he saw made him roll his eyes.

She was cleaning the table where the old woman had left, wearing too-big sneakers with no socks and still had that boundless energy. The uniform – yellow shirt, black pants – seemed too big for her, as if she had gotten an ex waitresses'. The hair was uglier than ever – it was wet from the rain outside, as if she had just got in, and it clung to her awkwardly, too long to be considered short, too short to be considered medium-length. She slipped a little in the big shoes and shuffled off to the kitchen window to dump her load of dishes, then looked up from across the room. Quickly, he dropped his gaze – he didn't want to talk.

Apparently she didn't get the message, because she scooted over to his table in a flash. "Yo, hey, Tommy! It's Tommy, right? Remember me, from the gym?" She hesitated for the barest second, and then sat down across from him, resting her hands on the table. He saw that the swelling had gone down mightily, but there were still scattered markings across the knuckles. "My hands are doin' great," She continued, as if he had actually asked or cared, "I'm comin' to the gym tomorrow, you workin'?"

"Nah, I ain't workin'," He said, voice a low growl. He scraped his hands across his dark knit cap. "Whatsa matter, you gonna go bust your hands again?"

A smile which revealed slightly crooked teeth was flashed, and he suddenly realized she was almost nice looking. Not pretty, not even in the same ballpark, but with maybe a different haircut and twenty pounds on her she might look decent, instead of like a homeless junkie. "Yeah, but, if you trained me, I wouldn't hurt myself, see?" She chirped, brown eyes focusing on his steel gray ones. "You said you don't train _nobody_ – I ain't nobody. Please? C'mon, I'm a fast learner, I won't give you no lip, I swear."

The buxom Jenny came sashaying back with his Guinness, setting it down in front of him. The table was scarred with hundreds of imprints of frosty beer mugs, and the slightly-warm beer made its mark among the gummy residue. There was a slight sticking sound as he picked it up to take a sip, the thick, foamy head tickling his upper lip. "You give people lip a lot?" He asked, raising his eyebrows, and she flashed another smile, very quickly.

"My boyfriend says I am, so yeah, I'm kinda mouthy," She said, sounding a little subdued. Then she rallied and grinned again. "But hey, y'know, I wouldn't give you none of that, I promise. Whaddya say?"

"Why you wanna train, mm?" Tommy asked, looking her square in the eye. "There ain't no room for girls in MMA. You got people there – you got people there who _kill_ their opponents. You ain't gonna last five seconds in the cage, I swear."

"I don't wanna fight, I just wanna learn," She pleaded, shifting a little in her seat. She was never still – always moving, tapping, tracing, doing something. There was a lot of potential energy to be tapped there. "C'mon, I just need a trainer. Please? I'll pay you, I'll pay you whatever you ask. I got two hundred dollars under my mattress right now, an' more in the bank, so I can pay you. Okay?"

"I ain't no trainer," Tommy rumbled, low voice quiet and determined. "You wanna trainer, I can get you one. But I'm a fighter, see, I ain't no trainer."

She seemed torn, deciding between Tommy himself – a person she barely knew – and a complete stranger. "Wouldn't that make you bettah?" She queried, cocking her head to the side. "I mean, 'cos you're a real fighter 'n all. Wouldn't it make you bettah?"

"No," Tommy said firmly.

There was silence for some minutes, and then Jenny breezed over with a plate overflowing with greasy food and set it down in front of Tommy. Jenny looked meaningfully at the other girl – Tommy couldn't remember her name for the life of him – and she got up reluctantly. "Who do you know?" She asked, with an air of compensation.

"There's, uh, Ricky over on Third Street," Tommy said, "An' Sammy, he's over on Worshington road. Both of 'em will do you good, you got it?"

She shrugged, stole a french fry. "I got it. Hey, thanks, Tommy," She said, and then pulled out her notepad. Hastily clicking her pen, she scribbled something down. "This's my number, 'kay? You call me if you change your mind, right?" She slapped the note face-down on the table then scurried off, slipping and sliding in her oversized shoes. He watched her go, and then dimly thought _She stole one of my fries_, which really didn't have anything to do with the conversation they just had. Sighing, he bit into his burger, looking at the irregular note, torn from her notepad, and decided the burger had enough oil to choke a horse. Chewing, he flipped over the note, and his heart almost stopped.

_You better train me, Tommy Conlon. I only learn from the best. KELLY 783-555-2910_

How the _hell_ did she find out who he was?

* * *

><p>He found her in the gym the next day, of course, despite the pouring rain outside, she had still made it. He didn't know how far away she lived – the restaurant and the gym were nearly twenty minutes apart – but she was soaked to the skin and wearing her ridiculous outfit. This time, though, she disregarded the tee shirt and opted instead for a dingy white undershirt which probably belonged to a truck driver before it ever hit her small body. A crumpled sweatshirt over by the benches was so wet a stream of water was running across the floors, and he growled at his coworker to wipe it up. She was dancing around the big bag she had been going after earlier, kicking it occasionally and almost ending up flat on her back, her balance was so poor. He marched straight over, avoiding the other boxers who hailed him in greeting, and grabbed the bag. "Hey, what's you problem?" He demanded, his gray eyes dark and hard as steel. He was big, aggressive, and <em>furious<em>.

"I want you to train me," She said, and her Jersey accent struck her in full force. She seemed just as determined, for a little bitty girl, and equally aggressive. "I wanna learn from _you_, Tommy Riorden, 'cos you're the best an' we both know it. Your brutha popped your shoulder, that was the on'y reason you lost, 'cos you woulda decked him the next round. You didn't spare him nothin', and I want you to train me, you got it?"

He wanted to kill her. Punch her lights out. Give her bruises on her face to match the ones on her hands. He would have, had she been a guy. He wouldn't have hesitated to drag her over to the cage, give her gloves, and proceed to break every single rib and tear every muscle. But she was a _girl_, a _woman_, for God's sake, and the rage trashing his system vented a little. His mother had been subjected to a man like him – enraged, ready to do battle at any moment. He wouldn't turn into his father. He wouldn't. Ever. So, instead of pounding some sense and fear into her, he locked his jaw, and snapped out, "How did you find me."

A smirk. She _smirked_ at him, goddammit. "Ain't that hard. My old man served wit' you, over in Iraq, real briefly. He saw your face on television 'fore he died, said you musta gone AWOL, 'cos everyone thought you were dead. I watched Sparta, wanted the best fighter, found you. Like I said, ain't that hard."

"Why you wanna be a fighter, huh? Why me?" Tommy snarled, clenching his fists around the bag.

"'Cos I'm tired 'a bein' a helpless female, that's why," She snapped. "An' fightin' pays better 'n waitressin'. Plus you get to beat people up."

"Look, girly, they'll _wipe the fuckin' floor_ with you. Those guys in there? Them guys are animals. They'll _eat you alive. _You got that?" Tommy told her, stabbing the air an inch from her face with his finger. "An' you wanna be a fighter, fine, go ahead. But you get in the cage, you'll come out in an coffin. I'll train you, fine, but you're gonna get murdered if you ever go in there, got me?"

That stupid, stupid grin. "Gotcha."

* * *

><p><em>AN: I changed the summary to give you a better example of the story. And Tommy and Kelly will NOT like each other at first, so hang in there. Please review! I'm SOOOO happy at the amount of viewing this is getting! I've never gotten 4 reviews on the first chapter before, especially on the SAME DAY IT WAS UPLOADED, so this is so wild for me! Please, you have no idea how much it cheers me up to see reviews, it really makes my whole day. Thank you, thank you, THANK you, all of you. XD _


	3. Courage

Her apartment had a stale, unused feeling to it, something which was accented by the yellowed wallpaper and the thin walls. Somewhere off to her left, the faucet in the sink dripped continuously, creating an eerie puncture to the silence. Usually, there was a wet, rasping snore from her boyfriend, a wiry man named Jordan who preferred putting black eyes on her face to finding a job. But today, he must be out drinking – no doubt he would stumble home, drunk and belligerent, and for that she had to prepare. Dropping her backpack to the floor, she hurried over to the tiny kitchenette, marked with such a title only because there was a rusty white mini fridge and a dented sink slapped next to each other. Opening the fridge, she saw three boxes of old takeout and a six-pack of chilled beer – perfect. Her movements were, for once, unhurried and efficient, nothing like the usual stuttering, rapid movements she had. Scrambling to her feet, she hurried down the short hallway, slapping at the light switch as she passed, and went to the bathroom. Carefully, carefully, carefully, she took all the razors, the pills, everything but the toothpaste and the mouthwash. Anything which could be used as a weapon. Then again, Jordan didn't really need a weapon, his shouting was enough.

The TV had to be on – channel five, local news, nothing else or he would throw a fit. She put the remote in a visible place on the coffee table, so he wouldn't be mad and try to tear the place apart looking for it. After these few things were done, she went to their shared bedroom, digging through the cheap particleboard dresser which held a rumpled assortment of wrinkled clothes, all in varying stages of filth. Pulling her shirt over her head, she sniffed it gingerly, then folded it, putting it neatly in the drawer. Her uniform had cost twenty five dollars, too much to be treated poorly, and it didn't even fit. The black pants were given the same treatment, and she swiped her hands over her body briskly, dispelling the goose bumps. Inadvertently, she caught a glimpse of her back legs in the mirror behind her as she turned to grab a tee shirt.

As if magnetized, she turned fully and examined herself in the mirror, brown eyes deadening slightly as she took in her reflection. She was thin – they couldn't afford enough food on the one income, and the drugs to keep her ADHD under control had been experimental and didn't work in the slightest. It had only forced her to lose twenty five pounds, twenty five pounds she couldn't afford to lose because she was already so small, and made her hyperactivity worse. But the thin, birdlike bones and lack of muscle weren't what drew her eye – it was the finally healing bruises darkening her lower abdomen and left hipbone. Jordan wasn't forgiving in his beatings. He never had been.

Shaking her head, she turned away from the mirror, swallowing, trying to focus – a difficult task, for her. Kelly snatched a few clothes at random and threw them on, tugging them over her head. Jordan didn't like coming home and seeing her in her uniform. She loved him, she did – and he loved her. She was sure of it. He told her, almost every day. But their life was hard, she told herself, and their strained finances made it difficult to live together. He had a temper, she knew that when she got involved with him, she just didn't know it was the physical kind. But a little love was better than none at all. Their debt was big, and a rude little letter from the bank informing them that they were two months behind on their loan payment got her thinking about training again.

Three years ago, she had been nineteen, fresh and invigorated, ready to do battle. She had been a champion, ready to embark on her track career. She had been fit, and now Kelly looked in the mirror and saw an old, thin woman aged far beyond her young years. It was hard, struggling to survive in poverty, but she had ditched it all, along with her running career. Her last race had ended sourly for her, causing her to tear her ACL band and spend a few weeks in therapy. That was right in the middle of her downward spiral – the parties were wild, the beer was free, and the drugs were exhilarating. Losing the race, to a young newbie no less, had demolished her faltering career. Nothing was worth getting back in the game, she promised herself when she was in rehab drying out. Nothing. I will never go back to racing. It's behind me.

And here she was, blackmailing a trainer into coaching her. Not even a running coach – she was trying to become a fighter. Oh, please.

She scrubbed a hand through her hair and began shifting her weight, dancing impatiently, never staying still for long. Fighting was something she could do – her father had been a trainer, told her that she had the structure for it. The running world was closed to her – she had too many ghosts, too many skeletons in the closet. But she remembered the raw, primal matches she had witnessed as a child, watched the down-and-dirty parking lot brawls between burly construction workers. She remembered it all, and wanted it. Doing the research hadn't taken much – looking up titles, championship matches, but most importantly, winnings. And she saw that one match a week could pay for their bills, with her waitressing job giving them luxury money.

It had sounded so good in her head. And then her father had gotten sick, and everything had been thrown up in the air. Jordan hadn't been very supportive, but he was bad with emotions. So she had gone to see her father in the hospital, who was too sick to notice her black eye anyway, and heard about Tom Conlon. The Miracle Man. Seeing him in the octagon, seeing him pummel his own brother, had been what she was looking for. She wanted power like _that_ – wanted the ability to beat and kick and punch somebody senseless. It would help. Sports had always helped her. And the brutal, punishing style of Tommy's fighting had entranced her, enthralled her, gotten her to the point of screaming and punching the air. She needed the feel the throb of an excited crowd again, needed to taste the adrenaline.

The front door slammed, and Kelly just about jumped out of her skin.

"Kelly?"

She cringed.

"I know you're home! Kelly!" He bellowed, the door kicked shut behind him. _Go out and see him, don't hide, he hates it when you hide_, she panted internally. Fear rose up, hot and cloying, in her mouth, and she moved into his line of vision. In a moment, she felt the floor shake as he crossed the room in a bound, felt his iron hands grip her arms, her head hitting the wall as he smashed her against it. "What the _fuck_ do you mean, you're gonna be a fighter, huh?" He shouted at her, spittle flying from his mouth.

"Jordan, please, jus' listen 't me," Kelly pleaded, every muscle quivering taut. Shame and an overwhelming fear rose up in her_ - don't shout, the neighbors will hear, get away, don't hit me_ – and then she lowered her eyes.

"I go down to the bar, and what do I hear? Some little shit is gettin' trained by some meathead over in the gym?" He snarled. "Huh? You know anything about that?"

"It'll help pay th' bills," Kelly whispered, under her breath. "And I c'n fight, my Da said I was built for it, maybe, so's I thought I could –"

"You thought, you thought!" Jordan roared. "Did I say you could think? Huh? Did I?"

She cowered, fighting the tears, breath hitching in her throat as he gave her a little shake for emphasis. "I c'n make five hundred dollars, Jordan, please, just gimmie a chance, I c'n do it!" Kelly begged. "I was gonna tell you, honest, I jus' didn't have time, 'n then I couldn't –"

He smacked her, hard, across the face, and she shut up, going limp in his grasp.

"Don't you _ever_ –" He growled, pushing her harder into the wall, "- _ever_, go behind my back again, you got me?"

She shivered against the wall, fingers curling against the aged wallpaper as he withdrew. Kept her head down. "I gotcha," She whispered.

He went to the television, sat down on the couch, still scowling as he untied his sneakers. Jordan was a handsome man – thin, wiry, but with dark hair which he fussed over and intense blue eyes. He wasn't sweet, or romantic, but he was passionate. She had admired his passion at one point, loved his tempered fire. But now, still cringing against the wall, cheek stinging, she tried to remember what she had done to make him fall out of love with her. No, that wasn't right – they were in love. It was just the way things were. He watched the TV with a frown on his face, and then she licked up the nerve, scrapped up the courage as if she were a soaked kitten.

"C'n I still fight?"

"No." The word was sharp, final, demanding.

She creaked down the hall, and went to the bathroom, slowly thumbing the cheap lock behind her. The tears came in the dark silence, and she felt her small shoulders buckle forward as she slid down the door, huddling on the ground, wet and alone. No fighting. She could train, she _knew_ she could – it was like when she ran. Kelly _knew_ she was a good runner. There were moments when a talent was revealed, and she knew she could be good at martial arts if Jordan would just give her a chance. But would he leave her? Would he leave her if she went behind his back _still_, even after what had just happened? No, he wouldn't leave her, she decided – he would kill her. Just keep pounding and pounding until she stopped moving, stopped fighting, stopping screaming. She could see it, almost as though it were a movie playing out before her.

Kelly had plenty of things in her emotional supply, but courage was not one of them. She was a determined woman, and most people would say she was aggressive when she was around them, but she always turned to limp, pathetic mush around Jordan. She had no stamina around him. Burying her face in her arms, she took a shaky sob, tilted her head back, leaned it against the door. No courage. No stamina. What was _wrong_ with her? She had to find out. She would find out if she was any good at a fighter – one or two sessions, see if she could pick it up, and then that would be it. If she wasn't good at it, she'd do something else. If she _was_ ... Kelly pushed the thought away and instead concentrated on composing herself. One session – maybe two.

And for the first time in her life, Kelly Martin got a taste of courage.

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><p><em>AN: My muse is raring to go on this story! Please tell me what you think, I love all the reviews I'm getting for this story! Usually I have to get some attention before I get any reviews, like offer to give out plushies or something. Anyway, PLEASE, make my day – my week, actually – and review. Please? _

_I made a little banner for the story - check it out here: h t t p : / / p a r a d o x e n i g m a . d e v i a n t a r t . c o m / # / d 4 q v 7 i n _


	4. Discussion

He had never considered Philadelphia a beautiful city. Yes, the people in it were strong and proud, but he had too many ghosts back here, too many things he regretted. His first fight had been in Philly – a back-alley scuffle, ringed by chanting boys, leering at him and placing their bets from the safety of the crowd. The anger he had helped him fight – so he clung to it, almost relishing every blow his father delivered on him, every scar his father had inflicted. He channeled every confused, tangled thought and vicious emotion into his fists, his legs, punished his opponents as his father had punished him. They couldn't ask why, either – they didn't understand why he was trashing them, just like he didn't understand why his father beat him senseless. The anger felt _good_ – familiar. Constant. Steadying. And when there was a lack of able bodies to fight, a punching bag helped. Or a wall. Although, neither were as satisfying, mostly because neither of them hit back. He scraped his hands over his short hair and clenched his jaw, hissing out a breath between his teeth, trying to dismiss his anger as easily. It was morning, and there was a fine mist whispering against the stiff concrete, a silent message passed on throughout the grimy streets, a note from nature. There were few people out this early in the morning – the sun was not yet up, and most likely would not be seen for the rest of the day – so he had the streets of Philly to himself. Well, himself and the constantly yammering girl at his elbow, trailing half a step behind.

Didn't she ever just _shut up_? It was as though a toddler were trailing behind him, yakking on about something or other, because it seemed as though she barely stopped for breath. Tommy would have increased the pace, save that the run was five miles long and he didn't want to wreck himself for the rest of the day. Kelly, on the other hand, seemed perfectly willing to bound ahead – although, it was either respect or the desire to talk his ear off some more which kept her tethered to him. The sneakers she ran in squeaked – for some reason, his mind attached to that noise, tuning out her pattering drone. Angling around a tipped-over trash can, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Kelly was favoring her left side; it was more of a casual observance than actual concern, seeing as he _was_ her trainer. Part of him just wanted to tell her to go to hell and never come back – after all, he had deleted all records of Thomas Conlon, didn't he? But still, the fear of being caught knifed at him, and the idea that someone knew his real name was beginning to strain him.

They stopped when they got to the gym, and Tommy paused a moment to catch his breath. The loop around his neighborhood, ending at SuperFitness, was a trek he made every day – the five-mile jog was simple, not too much traffic. It would have been relaxing except Kelly didn't quit talking the whole time. Withdrawing a set of keys, he unlocked the gym and stepped inside, the smell of rubber and old sweat hitting his nose aggressively. Kelly followed him quickly, glancing around almost guiltily and then allowing the door to bang shut behind her. "Wow," She spoke up from behind him. "Nevah been in a gym that hasn't been open before."

How do you _answer_ that? Tommy decided the best mode was silence, and ignored what she said, instead going over to the benches and pulling his sweatshirt over his head. Tossing it aside, he flexed his shoulders several times, trying to soothe away his grating headache due to Kelly's near-constant chattering. Now, however, she was strangely silent, and he glanced over at her with a mildly disinterested expression. Her brown eyes were bright, eager, and alert, but she had a nervous aura about her which he could feel under his skin. She kept glancing anxiously at the doorway, and he began to think she was touched in the head. Shrugging, he held up the roll of tape. "Lesson one," He rumbled, voice quiet and low. "Learn how to tape your hands better."

She watched him carefully, winding the thick tape around his hands, keeping his fingers together and setting his wrist. He didn't say anything – merely wrapped his hands and tossed her the roll. She fumbled for a moment, and then began trying to imitate him. For a split second, he saw himself, trying to copy Brendon's actions, following right in his footsteps. A barely visible tremor shook him as he shook off the memory, dispelling it like mist in sunlight. When her hands were clumsily taped in a thick coating of white boxing tape, Kelly held up her hands and offered him that funny little smile. "Good?" She asked.

His approval was a jerk of his head. "Let's see what you got," He muttered, gesturing towards the punching bag. "And for God's sake, don't give me that crap you were doin' the other day. Take it easy, relax, be steady. It ain't an enemy."

Kelly narrowed her eyes, glowering at the punching bag, and cocked her fists. With a little grunt, she propelled herself at the bag, slugging it hard on the vinyl, and began slamming herself into it. Tommy rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Stop, stop, _stop_," He snapped. "This is _training_. You ain't in a fight. Steady, look – watch." He steadied himself, rocking back on his heels, and then struck out, hard and fast. "One-two, one-two, one-two," He hissed under his breath, settling into a rhythm. He had to stop himself after a moment – the training was too good, felt too nice, and he was supposed to be showing her how to work out, not help himself. She was evaluating him, watching him carefully, and when he stopped, panting a little, she copied him.

No, she didn't just copy him. She _mirrored_ him.

It was eerie – even the little back-and-forth movement between her ankles, settling into his groove as easily as he had shown her. The look on Kelly's face was set, and he caught a glimpse of teeth as she continued pounding the vinyl bag. She didn't have enough stamina to continue after a few minutes, but when she stopped, gasping for breath, he just stood there. Because, for a flare of an instant, he had seen her in the cage – surrounded by people, bloodied, bruised, but grinning that wild, restless grin – and it clicked. Familiar. He said nothing – as always – and instead frowned subtly, the corners of his mouth tugging downwards. All he said was a clipped "You're out of shape" before crossing the room to the crunch mats and getting on his back. She followed him – she _always_ followed him, like some lost puppy – and dropped to her side, rolled over, and smiled a little. "How was that?"

He was already doing crunches, not even winded yet, and spit an answer out between his teeth: "Practiced."

She waited, on tenterhooks, for a split second, and then started doing sit-ups. Kelly was used to sit-ups – training as a teenager had given her ample opportunity to tear her abdominals, but she was ridiculously out of shape and barely made a repetition of thirty before dropping on her back and allowing her muscles to go slack. She was already bathed in sweat, and Kelly couldn't _believe_ she was this sore already – three years out of the game couldn't do this to her, could it? For once, she waited until the proper time to ask him a question. "Whatcha mean, practiced?" She inquired, turning her head to look at him. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to remember where he had seen her, and then it hit him, all at once -

- _The octagon, his grip on a slippery, wiry body, attempting to pin the other man to the floor as they wrestle. The crowds, screaming, on their feet, pounding the floors and the benches, their roars creating a lush backdrop which throbbed with energy. A glib announcer whooping and sputtering out statistics as fast as he possibly can, and the raw, sheer brutality from the match is ebbing into the crowds. And on the skirts of it all, a craggy-faced coach, chewing on a toothpick, totally unimpressed, watching the match. Next to him, a small girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, pummeling the air, bares her teeth in a wild grin, brown hair flying behind her as she launched several kicks in midair. Scant details, seized on the edges of his consciousness, as he blacked out, - _

"Your father was a trainer." It was a rumbled statement, a lion's warning growl. "Joe Martin. Best 'a the business. Don't play dumb."

She sat up, tousled her hands through her hair. "So? What if he was? You gotta problem?"

"You ain't been straight wit' me," Tommy thundered lowly. "Why do you wanna be a fighter? Straight, now. I ain't gonna put up wit' no more lies."

Kelly got to her feet slowly, her abdominals sore from her meager repetition, back aching from her argument with the punching bag. He sprang to his feet in a sleek, powerful movement, and she thrust down her fear when she saw how much he towered over her. Still, she was cocky and her chin jutted forward argumentatively when his blue-gray eyes, sharp with determination, met her own dull brown ones, narrowed with defensiveness. "So's I wasn't square wit' you straight off. My Da was a coach, big whoop. He ain't been no angel in my life, y'know? But he didn't want me to be a fighter, so's I figured th' best way to screw the ol' man is to become one, y'know?" She thrust her hands into the pockets of her baggy black pants, balling her fists, setting her teeth. "An' I watched the matches as a kid, so's I figure I c'n do it."

"You were a track runner, right?" He growled, and the unspoken question hung in the air. She looked away from him finally, dropped her gaze to the floor.

"Yeah. Too many people know my name back there, though." She said quietly, one hand scratching at her jawline. "Messed up bad, back in the runnin' world, and I can't go back. Not now, not evah. But 'n MMA, I'm Joe Martin's daughter. Not Kelly. I c'n manage that reputation, y'know?"

_Well, doesn't this sound familiar_, Tommy thought bitterly to himself. Almost the exact same reasoning had driven him back to the fighting world; although he highly suspected that she had another reason as well. He had, at least – supporting Manny's family was a higher calling than his reputation, at least it had been. Roughing his hands through his short hair, he sighed. "You get in the cage, you'll die." He told her tightly.

Her incorrigible personality flared again, and she flashed the stupid crooked grin. "Nope," She smiled, and went over to her sweatshirt. He watched apprehensively as she withdrew a crumpled, faded flyer shouting out something in yellow writing. Taking it from he, he scanned it quickly, setting his teeth as he read further. **Monthly Fights!** The flyer promised. **Down and Dirty Chick Fighting Action! Come to Honest Abe's Bar at 10:00 PM to Witness Hot, Sexy Matches Between Bombshells! **

"This ain't MMA," He pointed out. "Jus' a buncha dirty old men watchin' girls."

"It's a start," Kelly protested. "C'n I be ready for a fight in a month?"

He scanned her, looking at the lean arms and skinny frame, awkward curls hanging around an overeager face, hollowed cheekbones and thin ankles. "No," He stated bluntly. "Three months."

Her shoulders sagged slightly.

"An' that's only if you do everythin' I say. You gotta eat more – eggs, toast, cereal, all that for breakfast. Five mile jog, ev'ry day, then come to SuperFitness and I'll have you doin' exercises. But you _gotta _eat more; if you're smokin', drinkin', whatever, stop. If you're serious 'bout this, then you gotta do all that 'n more." Tommy informed her. Her funny brown eyes sparked, and before he knew what was happening she had given him a quick hug. Blinking, bewildered, he not-so-politely turned away and held her at arms length.

"Thanks, Tommy!" She chirped brightly, giving him that restless grin.

"An' no huggin'," He muttered as she dropped back to the mat, returning to her sit-ups freshly enthused.

* * *

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_A/N: You have no idea how happy reviews make me! If you really, really want me to update quicker – you have been awesome so far – please review! I love reading them, I just treasure them so close to my heart. And you all cheer me up so much! _


	5. Discovery

"Oh, Tommy, I can't – I'm done."

The words were bit out between clenched teeth as Kelly nearly lost her grip on the punching bag between her thighs. Tommy's grueling regime had her clinging to a punching bag with her knees and doing a vertical crunch, fighting against gravity and trying to use her already-exhausted core. Tommy – her coach, her bleary mind supposed – was holding the bag in place as she hung there, still trying to keep herself from collapsing. His workouts were _torture_ – every morning, rain or shine, began with a five-to-seven mile jog around Philly, and the diet was strict; mostly unattainable goods on Kelly's shoestring budget, but she fudged and said she was following it to the letter. Thanks to marginal increase in food and his excellently painful workouts, Kelly's thin frame was beginning to acquire some muscle, bulking her up slightly and giving her soft belly some definition once more. For two weeks, there had been little change – at least in Kelly's eyes – and then she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and realized her body was getting some sleekness around the starved bones. At the moment, however, Kelly felt sure that she would fall and crack her head open on the concrete floor beneath her, seeing as her abs were shredded and felt as though they were on fire.

"Finish the rep," Tommy replied curtly, not moving, and he heard the vinyl squeak as Kelly spurred herself onwards, jaw locked tightly, muscles wound to snapping point. At the very brink of her collapse, just when she was going to risk a concussion just so her knees could be on solid ground once more, she heard Tommy's deep rumble growl out, "All right, enough."

Relieved and grateful, Kelly let her hands drop from her head and she pried her thighs, sticky with sweat, off the bag with extreme care. Tommy released the bag, came around, and pulled her the rest of the way off, watching Kelly lie on the concrete floor with something akin to wry amusement twisting his full lips. She was breathing hard, her brown hair corded to her temples in dark waves away from her forehead, and her skin was flushed a sweaty pink. "I've died," She panted hard, her Jersey accent twisting her breathed words into something almost unrecognizable. "I've truly died."

"Not yet you haven't," Tommy said with a hint of a laugh behind his words. "C'mon, get up, you need 't drink."

A hand, limp and feeble, gestured tiredly. "No, no, no, I'm gonna lay here an' die," Kelly gasped. "Go 'way 'n give Jordan m' love."

His strong hand, calloused and brawny, wrapped around her elbow and hauled her unmercifully upright. Before she knew it, he had maneuvered her over to the benches lining the wall and sat her down, crouching in front of her. "Hey, Kelly, lookit me," He instructed, and she focused her weary brown eyes on his marble gray ones. "You're fine. We're in training. Have a drink."

The water bottle felt too cold in her hot hands to handle properly, and she almost dropped it on the journey to her mouth. Nevertheless, somehow a stream of cold liquid trickled down her throat, and she blinked at her trainer, focusing sweat-reddened eyes on him. "I hate you," She breathed.

"Great," Tommy said tersely. "C'mon, get up. Getcha sweats on, I'm takin' you home."

Despite her raw, aching muscles and inability to walk properly, Kelly's eyes lost some of the fog of tiredness and she seemed to shake herself awake. "No, I'm fine," She insisted, and dropped her head into her hands. "Just – need a sec, is all."

There was a tch'ing noise spat from between Tommy's teeth, and he shook his head. "It's five o'clock, 'n it's pourin' outside. C'mon, I'll take you home. I gotta car, an' I ain't gonna let you cool down in the frickin' rain. Now, c'mon, getcha sweats on."

_Aw, _hell_ no_, Kelly thought frantically to herself, trying to think of an excuse. It had been ridiculously hard keeping everything a secret from Jordan; she had woven several long, elaborate tales to explain the exhaustion and fed him lies about waitresses quitting and drug dealers giving her a hard time. The extra food? Her doctor said she needed to gain weight. The new running shoes? She wanted to jog, get herself back in shape. Jordan treated everything with skepticism and watched her closer than ever, not accusing her of anything but not trusting her either. Kelly had always been a good liar, except around Jordan. She turned to _mush_ around Jordan. Still, if she got dropped off by a muscular – and extremely attractive, she was slightly ashamed to admit – guy, Jordan would be intensely jealous and probably demand an answer to all the new work schedules. And if he found out that she had gone behind his back ... Kelly turned her brain off with difficulty. She didn't want to think about that. "I'm okay, really. I don't live far," Kelly protested.

Tommy threw her sweatshirt and pants at her. "Sweats. Now." He ordered.

Stalling as long as she could, she stretched her burning muscles and pulled her old sweatshirt over her ratty training bra. It was raining out, and she lived about two miles from SuperFitness – which would be a bone-chilling walk in the pouring rain. Still, anything was preferable than being hit by Jordan. Checking the clock on the wall, Kelly realized she needed to be home within ten minutes – otherwise, Jordan would be home and she wouldn't have time to change out of her workout clothes. Swallowing hard, Kelly forced a grin and nodded once. "M'kay. Let's go."

The car was a small, simple thing which she couldn't see too much of in the pouring rain. Fat white drops of rainwater burst on the sidewalk with wet slapping noises, and Kelly pulled herself into the car before she got too soaked. The abrupt change from uncomfortable warmth to frigid chill shocked her skin, and goose bumps scattered across her arms and legs. Tommy started the car, the headlights illuminating a soggy path before them, and he flicked a cool-eyed glance at her. "Which way?" He asked, the words short and tight. Kelly squirmed uncomfortably, not wanting him to know her exact address.

"Jus' go on up to the lights 'n take a left," Kelly told him, and he followed her instructions. In the silence of the car, Kelly noted one or two little details she wouldn't have placed in Tommy's car; a St. Christopher's medal hanging from the rearview mirror, spinning and catching the light, and what looked like a pine-scent air freshener. He drove as he lived – aggressively, recklessly, quickly, three things which would usually make Kelly either run the opposite direction or sit the person down and have a beer together. Not be trained by him. When he turned left at the light, Kelly waited ten seconds before saying, "Stop. Right here. I can walk from here."

Tommy arched an eyebrow, looking around at the scuzzy, graffiti-covered neighborhood, and said nothing. Nobody was out in this weather, anyway – and he decided he would wait until he saw Kelly safely step inside her home before he left. Just to be safe. She slammed the door behind her without a goodbye or a thank you, and raced for the apartment complex about half a block away. He waited, windshield wipers working overtime to clear a space, until he saw her fiddle with the key in the doorway. For a split second, he caught a glimpse of her face, far away though it was – she looked frightened. It could have been the light, he decided, and pulled away from the curb.

* * *

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"Where the hell have you been."

_Ohgodohgodohgod._

Kelly froze, wet clothes dripping on the cheap carpet, dark brown hair swinging in her face. Jordan was standing in the kitchen, an open beer in his hand, dark eyes looking at her with an unhealthy mixture of curiosity and anger. Dressed in an undershirt and jeans, she could see the wiry sinew around his arms and legs, and fear bolted through her again. "Had to cover to Jenny again?" He slurred, swallowing a gulp of beer and focusing on a spot in the carpet. "Or, what else, did the subway break down, and you had to walk? Mm?" He asked, getting to his feet. He was so much _taller_, Kelly thought frantically, and her guilt was written all over her face. That weird little flip of brown hair was tangled and falling in her eyes, and Jordan sauntered a little closer, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "And you know what else?" He asked, and this time he bracketed her against the door with his arms. "I checked with the guys down at SuperFitness...They said you've been coming down there almost every day with a guy called, uh, _Tommy_, and he's been training you."

He took a swig of his beer. "Got anything to say, princess?"

Her tongue wouldn't work, her brain wouldn't function. "I c'n make money at it," Kelly finally managed to whisper.

"You _went behind my back_!" Jordan roared, and Kelly flinched at his sudden change from quiet to furious. "I specifically _told_ you, and _what_ did you do? Huh?"

"I c'n do it! You ain't the boss of me!" Kelly shouted back, and she was instantly horrified at herself.

Those dark blue eyes bored into her. "Well, I think you and I need to have a little _talk_ about who's the boss in this house, mm?" He growled. "And then, I think we need to talk to your _coach_ – Tommy."

* * *

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_A/N: Wow, this is turning out really dark...Ah well. Please review! I was recently flamed on one of my other stories and now I'm questioning all of my characters. Is Kelly too Sueish? I'm trying to make this a mixture of difficult and easy for her, mostly because training is HARD, but she needs to have some talent. Otherwise, she would give up and look for something else to make money at. Why am I explaining myself? Maaauugh. Just review. Please. xD _


	6. Argument

The gym was quiet this early in the morning – people were still going to work, and the only person behind the desk was a tobacco-chewing man called Carl. However, when he pushed the glass doors open, he saw two people against the far wall, near the free-weights.

At first, he thought some stranger was bothering her. For some reason, a flare of annoyance and anger laced through him, and his eyes narrowed as he sized up the man. Tall, lanky, and sinewy, the man next to Kelly had dark slicked-back hair and shifty blue eyes which never seemed to stay still. He had a sharp, acute handsomeness to him, a sort of old fashioned charm which came through his clean profile and deep set blue eyes. A dingy white undershirt – which he dimly remembered as seeing on Kelly once before – covered his thin chest, a few gray curls peeking out over the top of his shirt. A gold necklace dangled in the void before him as he rested his forearms on his knees, and those dark blue eyes glared aggressively at him as Tommy approached. Kelly looked even smaller than she usually did next to the man – frail, almost – and she seemed to be tilting her face to the left for some reason. Was he bothering her? She seemed frightened of him, but the Kelly he knew wouldn't be sitting there meekly – she'd probably be up and chatting his ear off – or screaming for help. From his limited knowledge of Kelly, overreaction was something of a specialty of hers.

The man stood, and Tommy saw they were about the same height, but the other man was at least forty pounds lighter and had a good deal more muscle on his frame. "Hey," Tommy called, and drew closer, brows furrowing. "Kelly, what's up?"

Her lively brown eyes seemed dull as she looked up at him guiltily. It might have been the light, but did she have a black eye...? Tommy would have examined this further, except the wiry man had gotten right in his face and was sneering at him. "You're Tommy, right?" The man asked between his locked teeth. "You're the one trainin' my girl?"

His girl

? Tommy had used the phrase once or twice, to express favor over one of his friends, but from this man it sounded oddly possessive. "Yeah. Whatsa matter, who're you?" Tommy pulled his shoulders back and met the man square in the eyes, slate-gray orbs going stony at the challenging look the other man was giving him. People who challenged Tommy generally ended up badly hurt – and if this guy didn't get out of his face, he was going to join them.

"Jordan Packer, 'n Kel says you've been trainin' her." Jordan growled, cocking his head a little and thinning his lips. "I don't 'preciate that nobody told me about this, y'know?"

Tommy tried to catch Kelly's eye – why hadn't she told him? What was the reasoning behind it? But Kelly wouldn't catch his eye, kept her gaze fixed on the floor, and she seemed determined not to show the left side of her face. He turned his attention back to Jordan, and tried to force the anger out of his thoughts – it was jarring his senses, as usual. Clenching his knuckles, he nodded his head a few times, as if considering something, and then his dark eyes shot back up to Jordan's face. "Look, I dunno what Kelly didn't tell you, but yeah, I've been trainin' her. She's good."

"Well, it's off," Jordan said curtly, turning back to Kelly. "C'mon."

And he reached for her upper arm, as if to bring her upright, and Tommy recognized the action with a hard, brutal flash.

His father had reached for his mother that way, on one afternoon, when he had come home from school early because of a sick stomach. He remembered hearing the soft whimpers, more like sobbing bleats, and the creaking of the door hinges hidden beneath the pathetic noise. And then he had seen them, his mother cowering in a corner, shielding her face with her hands as his father rained kicks to her side, grunting a little each time as his foot connected with her ribs. His father had grabbed her roughly by the elbow, jerking her upright, snarling and spitting obscenities, his palm connecting with her cheek multiple times. And oh, _god_, he had just stood there, all of seven years old, and he didn't even remember screaming but he _must_ have, because his father stopped and they both looked at him. His mother had looked _just like Kelly_, guilty and terrified and ashamed, and a sick bile reared in his throat. And as she tilted her head to the side, he saw that she had a doozy of a black eye, puffy purple-and-blue markings beneath her eyebrow.

"_Hey_!"

Jordan felt a wide hand clamp down on his arm with a bone-crushing grip, spinning him around, smashing him against the wall. Tommy seized two fistfuls of the stained white undershirt, keeping him harshly in place. "You want me to quit trainin' Kelly, fine, I'm okay wit' that. But you lay a finger on her, and I swear to God, I'll come to your house 'n break every one a' your ribs. You got me?" Tommy barked.

He was wriggling a little under the painfully tight grip he had, glaring furiously at him with those dark blue eyes. Tommy felt Kelly hitting his bicep, trying to pull him away, calling his name. "Tommy! Tommy, quit it, stop, he's okay! Stop it, Tommy!"

Tommy turned, never letting go of Jordan's shirt, and saw her upturned face in the full light. She had a pretty bad black eye – a dark blue-black shadow stretching to her temple and cheekbone. As if she could feel where his gaze traveled, she instantly turned her cheek, averting her gaze. "He do that to you?" Tommy growled, the bitter snarl still sharpening his words.

"I slipped in the tub," Kelly lied quietly, keeping her chin close to her chest. "Tommy, please, let him go. C'mon."

"Bullshit," Tommy snapped. His charcoal gaze landed back on Jordan, who was attempting to kick him between the legs.

"Hey, what's going on?" Carl shouted from the doorway. "Tommy, what the hell?"

Tommy released Jordan's shirt, stepping back a bit, jaw jutted forward angrily. Jordan massaged the nape of his neck where his shirt had cut into him, and glared hatefully at Tommy. "Nuthin," Tommy finally told Carl. "Jus' talkin' about the girl I'm trainin'."

"Tommy, please," Kelly hissed under her breath, brown eyes huge and panicked. "No, Jordon doesn't wanna –"

"Screw Jordan," Tommy said brusquely, turning his attention to Kelly. "Do you wanna quit? Huh? 'Cos if you do, I'll walk. But if you wanna keep trainin', then we will."

And he saw her indecision – flitting glances between Jordan and Tommy, brown eyes seeming to get bigger with each passing second. The moment was taut with tension, glassy and framed with fear, and both men were staring at her intently, waiting to see how she chose. Carl shrugged and left, but kept an eye on the trio standing off to one another. Finally, her gaze settled on Jordan. "Please, Jordan," She whispered. "It'll help pay the bills. I can get five hundred bucks if I win all the fights at this bar, and I can do it. C'mon, Jordan gimmie a chance."

He seemed to be struggling whether to shout at her or hit her, but settled for glowering at her and muttering, "We'll talk when we get home."

The nervous, back-and-forth energy seemed to desert Kelly that day, and Tommy didn't want to push her too far. Still, disjointed images of his mother trying to protect himself kept flashing before his eyes, and the same question kept floating to the surface of his mine – _Why did they stay?_ Why did his mother stay with his father so long, after she had been so horribly abused, why was Kelly staying with that sleaze? He didn't _know_, and he suspected they didn't know either. He watched Kelly all that day, noticing how she arrived in a tee shirt instead of her tattered gray training bra, noted the limited movements from her right side, saw the hint of a bruise peeking out from underneath her loose jogging shorts. Little things he hadn't noticed, how could he have not noticed? She was almost a carbon copy of his mother. The same nervous, jittery attitude, the never-staying-still, and they both managed to do the same thing to him; both of them welled up feelings of protectiveness and helplessness. He wanted so _badly_ to hate his father, but he _couldn't_, because he was his _father_. Just like Kelly couldn't hate Jordan, because they were in love, or whatever horrible emotion represented the word.

"Yo, Tommy, should we go?"

She was standing there, taped hands still in her boxing gloves, her shaggy pageboy haircut spilling across her eyes. Sweat stains marked her dark tee shirt, and she seemed petite and almost delicate in the mass of clothing. Those big brown eyes filled her whole face, and she seemed apprehensive of him, skittish. She brought her wrist to her teeth and tore the strap off her gloves, and the ripping velcro made a hissing noise in the quiet of the gym.

"Yeah," He said quietly, and tossed her cheap plastic water bottle at her. "Take tomorrow off, too. We'll meet at the gym again on Thursday."

"Hey, Tommy?" Kelly called from the benches. He turned, unfathomable gray eyes impassive and unreadable. She swallowed, dropping her gaze. She muttered the next few words to the concrete floor. "Thanks. For stickin' up for me."

Tommy was silent for a moment, and then shook his head a little. "Look, he gives you any trouble, you come to me, a'ite? I'll give you my address." He snatched a ballpoint pen from the desk, scribbled a few lines, and came over to her. "Don't let him hurt you, Kelly," He told her firmly, tucking the slip of paper into her gloved hand.

She gave him a weak, faltering smile, a loose facsimile of her usual quick grin. "I'll be okay. Hey, Tommy, when can I start fightin'?"

"Like I said, three months," Tommy said.

Kelly stripped her gloves off with her teeth and then carefully averted her eyes. "I can't be ready in a week?"

"You've been training for three weeks," Tommy reminded her tersely. "I don't care if you're Rocky, you can't be ready in a month."

She nodded, watched him go, and sat back down on the benches. Taking a swig of her water, she scanned the paper he had given her. It was simple, just his name, address, and phone number. Part of her burned, low in her belly, hot with shame and fear that someone knew. Kelly cursed herself mentally – she had tried to be so _careful_. She knew she wasn't fooling the neighbors – you can slip and fall only so many times – but Kelly had hoped to keep it a secret from Tommy. There was no reason for him to butt in. And the _pity_! She hated the pity. Her mind tripped over the emotion which had flashed, naked and fierce, in Tommy's gray eyes. He had been furious, enraged, ready to do battle. Why? She didn't know. But it didn't matter – she needed to be ready in a week. Kelly knew that the sooner she had the money in her hand, the quicker Jordan would be appeased. And when Jordan was happy, everything was fine. The small part of her which was actually _sensible_ tried to say that she was spending entirely too much time making Jordan happy, but she squashed it instinctively. It didn't matter. Their problems were private – their problems were their business. Every couple had problems, Kelly told herself as she pulled on her sweats. They could work it out.

And she made up her mind right then in there, in a famous Kelly Martin on-the-spot decision. Whatever Tommy said, she was going to fight next week at Abe's Bar. Because five hundred dollars was a lot of money.

Five hundred dollars would go a long way to make Jordan happy.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Behold, Apprentice The Gimp! I broke my foot doing something EXTREMELY stupid, and now I'm hobbling around in crutches. -.- Also, I've had a slight confusion with my beta. Maybe she's not getting my emails. :) Whatever. At any rate, I hope you like this chapter, and I hope you review! _

_P.S. Rough Kelly sketch can be found on my profile. :) Most of my fanart is there._


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